


Till Dust

by michii1213 (BuckytheDucky)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, I'm Sorry, No Fluff, Sad, just pure sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 10:01:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6047458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuckytheDucky/pseuds/michii1213
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off a tumblr prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till Dust

There was a bite in the air that told of impending winter. Leaves scraped a dance against the hard, cold ground, and dark grey clouds inched sluggishly across a heavy silver sky. The smell of snow hung in the icy air; a sharp wind breezed through the empty tree limbs, the skeletal scratching echoing through the clearing in which the small group was gathered. Clouds of vapour puffed into the air with each breath they exhaled. The guests were circled around a long, wide table made of rough, rotting slabs of wood. On the platform rested two figures ensconced in a white cloth. An eerie silence spread over the cluster as they glanced amongst themselves. Nobody seemed to want to be the one to step forward, to be the one to send the figures into the beyond.

Finally, someone broke from their place in the circle. Long fingers, pale against the low temperatures, trembled as the man tilted a red plastic container, drenching the white cotton with a yellowish-clear liquid. The pungent smell of gasoline wafted through the air, but nobody flinched – they were all far too familiar with the odour. The lanky man who’d stepped away from his comrades shook, whether from cold or his quiet crying, no one knew, but regardless, he tossed the canister of gas behind him and pulled a carton of salt from his jacket pocket. Another man, a grizzled man they’d all met on occasion but never truly got to know, handed the man on his right and woman on his left books of matches; at this, all those gathered pulled out lighters or matchbooks from wherever they’d hidden the objects. No one had to speak for everyone to move in unison; the clearing was suddenly dotted with the dim flickers of light. A breath, a heartbeat, and twenty arms moved as one. A soft _whoosh_ was heard before bright, hot orange erupted, soaking the area in startling illumination. Flames licked high toward the sky, swallowed and engulfed the shrouded figures. A hoarse groan tore from someone’s throat; the blonde woman embraced the dark-haired man standing beside her. Their faces glittered with tears, the salty tracks glimmering, reflecting the incandescence of the fire that tore over the gnarled, dead wood without hesitation. There was no noise in the clearing, except for the inferno eating away its offerings, the creaking of the trees surrounding them as the wind blew through the limbs, and the shaky breathing of the witnesses as they struggled to remain stoic in the face of their actions.

Darkness had set in by the time the flames faded to a low, peaceful burn. Without a word, the group dispersed, leaving in twos and threes, picking their way through the trees on their own paths. Only one remained behind. The man leaned against the hard, frozen bark of the oak, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his black pea-coat. An empty, almost regretful expression resided in his deep brown eyes, and his lips were pressed into a thin line amongst the stubble on his cheeks and jaw. He extracted a hand; his fingers were wrapped around a dull silver flask. He moved soundlessly toward the pile of ash and half-burned wood and cloth. The last of the flames reflected in his dark eyes. His face was passive, unflinching, even as the scent of burnt flesh and gasoline invaded his olfactory sense. Ash, grey and lightweight, danced in curling arcs to the sky, carried by the breeze; the embers, the leftovers of the pyre’s feast, hissed as they glowed dimly throughout the rubble left behind from the funeral rite. He raised the flask in a silent salute before taking a healthy swig of the whisky he was always well-stocked with. When he spoke, his words were quiet, rounded with the rough cadence of his British accent.

“Well, Moose… Squirrel… You were damn good pains in my arse.”

He stayed only moments longer, just long enough for two, three more swallows of his Glencraig; he turned on his heel and walked away, his footsteps abnormally silent amongst the fallen dead leaves and twigs on the forest floor. He knew his steps marked the end of an era, a tiring period of his life of playing Cat-and-Mouse with the two Hunters who’d been anything but accommodating toward him, but they certainly had made everything interesting. He was never one for turning down a challenge; Sam and Dean Winchester were never less than a challenge. And maybe, just maybe, if that was the first – and only – time in his entire existence that he’d ever wished he was an angel, well… Only Fergus Crowley would know.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt I followed:
> 
> "I’d bet you anything that when Sam and Dean finally die for good, Crowley will be at their funeral.
> 
> He’ll be there, watching the flames carry their ashes into the sky as he nurses a glass of whisky. He’ll show no emotion – in fact, he’ll seem disinterested – but he’ll stay there long after the other mourners are gone, and the fire has died down to a few embers hissing where two hunters once lay.
> 
> And he’ll raise his glass and say “Moose and Squirrel, you were damn good pains in my ass” and walk away, knowing his steps mark the end of an era. And maybe, just maybe, that will be the first – and only – time in his existence that he’s wished he was an angel."


End file.
